


Snowstorm

by rosegardeninwinter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: (to clarify there are Hunger Games it's just that Katniss isn't in them), Alternate Universe - No Hunger Games, F/M, wintery warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 19:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17028441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: “Spring is for courting, so mother will say; summer for wedding, rosy as May; autumn for keeping you warm from the cold; winter for babies to care when we’re old.”Written for the prompt: "No games, canon. Just a good, all time favorite “it would have happened anyway” story. Maybe throw in snowstorm trope to make it seasonal?" You got it. :D





	Snowstorm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buttercupbadass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercupbadass/gifts).



There’s an old rhyme we sometimes say in 12. My father used to sing it. I think he made up the tune. I haven’t heard anyone so much as hum it since he died, but it comes to my mind now as I lace up boots over thick stockings.  


“Spring is for courting, so mother will say; summer for wedding, rosy as May; autumn for keeping you warm from the cold; winter for babies to care when we’re old.”  


It must be from a time before the Dark Days because it’s so cheery and nonsensical. True, it’s something of an unspoken convention for couples to take up in the spring, but no one likes to get married in the summer, with the Games looming over us. Most people go to the Justice Building as the harvest comes in; that way friends and family can share some fruit and nuts at the Toasting.  


Today though, we are having a winter ceremony. I run my hands down the fabric of my dress, one of Prim’s. Since we started receiving her Game earnings, my sister has blossomed. At seventeen, she’s become a beauty just like my mother, but her clothes don’t sit right on my bony frame. I give the shoulders a tug and the neckline slips down. I give up, accept the overlarge shoulders, and whisk my hair back into a braided bun. I take my father’s leather jacket from the bedpost. This’ll have to do.  


Prim is making cider. The scent wafts into the room she and I share. Our house in Victors’ Village has plenty of space but Prim can’t sleep alone anymore. It used to be worse. She used to sit up five times a night shouting names I could barely put a face to. Rue and Thresh, the tributes from 11. I’m grateful to them, if only for not coming home, but they aren’t real people to me. Thresh didn’t die protecting me from Careers. I didn’t bury Rue in flowers. Prim did.  


Prim had to.  


Because I, stupid, so desperate to volunteer, broke the protocol that could have let me save her. Save her from the pain of seeing so many die. The pain of losing her hand. But that was years ago. She has told me time and time again it wasn’t my fault. It was. Obviously it was. But I can’t let it ruin today. I won’t. I take a fortifying breath and head for the kitchen.  


Steam is rising from the pot Prim presides over, the delicate metal fingers of her prosthesis clicking absentmindedly against the counter.  


“It’s going to be like a fairytale out there.” She inclines her head to the window, where snowflakes are sparkling against a dark sunset. “Like the one with the polar bear and the maiden.”  


“Some fairytale.” Our father loved that story and the memory is sweet enough to drive the residual guilt from my chest. “Madge may be the fair maiden, but Gale’s more a grizzly bear than anything else.”  


It’s a strange match. It probably wouldn’t have happened had I not insisted to my best friend that we stay just that. Five years ago, I don’t think Gale would’ve accepted my refusal as well as he did last spring, when I folded a wild daisy back into his palm and shook my head. He did his best to act as usual during our Sunday hunts, but his poorly disguised longing was almost unbearable.  


I couldn’t account for the change that came over him that June. The pained look was gone, and I was so overjoyed to have my friend back I didn’t stop to ask what had him in such an upbeat mood.  


I doubt either of them meant to carry on for very long. They would trade strawberries and stolen touches while the heat of summer lasted. The cold weather would bring them back to their senses. But come November, Madge had knocked on our door, asking my mother for a pregnancy test.  


I marched out to the woods that Sunday, sat down on a stump, and waited for Gale with a scowl.  


“If you’re out here to berate me for being irresponsible or something, you can save your breath,” he’d said by way of greeting. “I’m going to take care of them.”  


“You’d better.”  


He’d fixated on a point past me, at a break in the trees where the gray sky showed through, not so much avoiding my gaze as lost in his own thoughts. He’d taken a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”  


Any other accusations I’d planned on levying fled my mind. My mouth must’ve gaped because he’d smirked. “What?”  


But I wasn’t having it. This was one impulsive idea too many. I snapped my mouth shut. “Do you love her?”  


The smirk thinned. “I think I could learn to.”  


I drummed my fingers expectantly against the stump.  


“I’m going to learn to,” he amended, and then, when my face didn’t change, he heaved a sigh. “I will.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Katniss, you’re not — ? you’re not seriously about to go back on what you said to me this spring are you?”  


“No.” It came out more hurt than I meant it to. “Don’t you dare think that of me, Hawthorne. I wouldn’t do that.” The wind picked up and I shivered. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”  


The fire went out of both of us. Gale scraped his boot against a frosty clump of roots. “I know you wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t do that. I’m sorry.”  


“Madge is my friend. I don’t want to stand by and watch either of you get hurt. Because this isn’t a temporary solution, Gale. This isn’t a quick fix. This is permanent.”  


“It is permanent,” Gale murmured. “But so’s the baby.”  


“It’ll look nicer if you — ” Prim takes me out of my thoughts as she sweeps a woolen scarf over my head, covering the neckline of my dress. “There.” She adjusts it. “I’ll go get Mom.”  


I make myself useful while she’s upstairs, pouring the cider into three large jugs, so that when she returns with our mother in tow, we are ready to put on our caps and enter the frigid twilight.  


Gale and Madge will have gone to the Justice Building already. We trudge down the road to Hazelle Hawthorne’s house, where the odd jumble of Seam folk and merchants will celebrate their return. The snow is flurrying by the time we knock on the door and Rory Hawthorne urges us inside. “Come in and warm up. Ma and the others’ll be back soon. She says to set food in the kitchen.”  


The Hawthornes’ rickety house is transformed, beautified in the simple way only someone raised in the Seam can scrap together. All the chairs and stools in the house are circled around the hearth. Bed quilts cover bare spaces on the floor between the furniture, making the living room like a cosy nest. The mantle is decorated with branches of holly.  


I’m not prepared for how laden the kitchen table is. At a usual Toasting there’s some sort of meal, maybe some cake if the family can afford it, but not this. Not a pot of rich soup, bread with butter, sticky cinnamon buns, a large chunk of cheese, oranges and cranberries. Prim oohs as she sets the cider jars down amidst the treats.  


“This is a feast,” my mother says.  


“Isn’t it?” Vick Hawthorne says in an undertone to me as we return to the living room. “We should have fancy townsfolk around more often.”  


It’s mostly a familiar mining crowd that gathers in the living room, but now that Vick mentions it, I recognize a handful of Madge’s friends. Clara, who married a tailor after we graduated school, and Delly Cartwright, beaming over the proceedings, and next to her —  


Oh no. Not him.  


I hurriedly excuse myself back to the safety of the kitchen. There’s no one in here, so I lean against the rusty stovetop and take a breath.  


Ten years I’ve owed him and ten years I have been unable to think of a single way to repay him. I almost said something the year we sat next to each other in history, but I didn’t. I almost said something the year we finished school, but I didn’t. I’ve almost said something every time I’ve gone by the bakery on my way back from the forest in the morning. He’s probably forgotten all about the bread, probably has no idea the magnitude of his generous act, but I know, and I can never forget.  


Outside, the weather has worsened: it’s more a snowstorm than Prim’s fairytale. I can barely see the road. There’s no way the couple or their parents are going to try to get home in this. This party will have to get comfortable. And someone should put the hot food back in the oven or it’ll get cold. No sooner has the thought gone through my head that I’m not alone anymore.  


“Cinnamon buns,” Peeta Mellark says. “Don’t want the icing to firm up.”  


I nod and step aside to let him open the oven door. “Though you shouldn’t leave them alone. This thing's temperamental.”  


“Oh. Thank you; I’ll stay then.”  


“Okay.”  


There’s a second’s pause; he’s waiting to see if I’ll continue the conversation, but I have no idea what to say next. He politely glances around the room. “It’s shaping up to be a bad one out there,” he says, inclining his head to the window.  


“Hope they didn’t get caught out in it,” I murmur.  


“No, I’m sure they’re fine. Only frustrated, cramped up in the Justice Building.”  


“That’s the trouble with a winter wedding. You can be late to your own Toasting.”  


“Decorations are beautiful though,” he says, gesturing to the candles burning on the table. “Nicest wedding I’ve ever been to and it hasn’t even started yet.” He smiles and I feel my discomfort begin to abate.  


“Hazelle’s outdone herself.”  


“Gale’s mother? I’m afraid I’m not as up to date on my Hawthorne family tree as on my Undersee.”  


“His mother’s Hazelle, yes. His brothers are Vick and Rory.”  


“And his sister’s Posy?”  


“That’s right.”  


“And your sister made this?” he says of the cider.  


“She did.”  


“It smells incredible.”  


“It’s been tempting me all afternoon,” I say. This is probably already the longest conversation Peeta Mellark and I have had. That’s a start. “Want to try some?”  


“Do I ever,” he says. There’s a mismatched assortment of tin mugs, borrowed from neighbors for the occasion, and we help ourselves to Prim’s drink. The heat and the taste of spices and sweet apples floods down to my toes.  


“Can confirm,” Peeta says, taking another gulp, “it is incredible.”  


A twanging sound comes from the other room. Someone has struck up an instrument, a mandolin it sounds like, playing a pleasant folk tune. Peeta turns toward the living room to listen and I take his momentary distraction to take stock of him. He’s grown taller since school, but his ashy curls and amiable demeanor are the same. It shouldn’t be easier to face down a bobcat than to be friendly to the baker’s boy. I scowl at my distorted image in the cider jar.  


“Do you still do sketches like you did in school?” I blurt at the exact moment that he says, “I meant to tell you, your dress is beautiful."  


“It’s my sister’s. It doesn’t really fit. Me. It fits Prim fine.”  


“Oh, um, yes. Well, when I have the time.”  


We stare at each other stupidly. “Um,” I say, as he begins, “So — ” I can’t help it. I laugh. Peeta grins.  


“What did your sister put in this cider?” he jokes. “Yes I still sketch. It’s nice of you to remember.”  


“I haven’t a clue what Prim gets up to when I’m not around,” I say. I fold my fingers around the sleeve of my dress. “My grandmother made this. For a dance. She loved cherries so that’s why it’s this color.”  


He sets his mug down on the table and seems to contemplate the vibrations on the surface of the drink for a moment. “Did your grandmother make the dress you had on our first day of kindergarten?”  


My nose scrunches as I try to remember anything about that long ago. I have some hazy recollection of my mother waking me up early to wash me in the laundry tub, of how I clung to my father’s hand nervously as we neared the playground, but nothing about the dress.  


“She might’ve,” I say. “I don’t remember a lot about that day. Except singing in front of everyone.”  


“I remember that too,” he says. For some reason he’s gone pink in the cheeks. “The birds outside went quiet to listen to you sing.”  


My breath catches in my throat. “They stop to listen to my father sing,” I say softly. “Used to. Used to stop to listen.”  


“You got your voice from him then.”  


“No one’s voice is like his. Not even mine.”  


“I don’t know about that.”  


“We were five,” I remind him. “I couldn’t have been that great.”  


“To five year old me you were. You were the greatest thing ever.” He gives an embarrassed laugh. “I tried to find the courage to tell you, but uh - as you can see, that didn’t happen.”  


He couldn’t find the courage to speak to me? This isn’t the right time to say it, but there may not be another time. I clench my fingers to the point of pain.  


“I needed to tell you something too,” I blurt. “I need to tell you. I - you - you threw bread out to me once.”  


I’m expecting him to stare in confusion. I’m not expecting his face to go from pink to red. “I did.”  


“You remember that?”  


“Of course I remember. You were starving. You were in our trash can looking for food.”  


I can’t stop the words now. “You saved me. You saved my life and you saved my sister’s life and I - I never thanked you because … because I couldn’t … because I don’t know how to repay you for what you did … and that was ten years ago and I didn’t think you’d remember but I — why did you do that for me?”  


Peeta takes a step towards me. “Why wouldn’t I?  


“You barely knew me. Barely know me. And your mother — ”  


“Doesn’t matter.” His voice is sharp. “I couldn’t let you die, Katniss.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns at his shoes. “I should’ve brought that bread to you. I should’ve brought you a blanket or — ”  


“What you did was more than enough,” I say. There’s a lump in my throat. “You gave us hope. You gave us hope and there’s nothing I can say or give you that can make up for that.” I cough and wipe my stinging eyes. Peeta hasn’t looked up from his shoes. The mandolin is playing a love song. I’m never going to forgive Gale for this. “But if … ” I whisper to my knees, “… if there’s anything I can do … to thank you … or …”  


“Katniss,” I hear him say, and his arms are around me. I slump against him with a tiny sob. He’s warm and solid and I hate that I’ve come apart so easily, ten years or no. “There isn’t anything. There isn’t. It’s okay.”  


“But I want to do something. I owe you. You don’t understand,” I tell the wall over his shoulder miserably.  


“I think I understand more than you think,” he says. “But I’m telling you now: no more owed.”  


“It doesn’t work like that.”  


“You’re alive. If we’re talking about more than enough … that’s more than enough for me.”  


I draw back. “Why’s that more than enough?”  


He’s going pink again. “Suppose my first opinions of you haven’t changed that much.”  


“Not since you were five?”  


“Well, no.” He isn’t meeting my eyes. “They’re not the opinions of a five year old.”  


I have to check that we haven’t inadvertently turned the stove on, because otherwise I can’t account for the rush of heat up my neck. My heart is hammering against my ribcage and I’m sure Peeta can hear it and I have no idea what’s happening or how to make it stop or if I want it to stop. And that’s when the mandolin from the other room is drowned in a cheer as the front door swings open and I can hear Gale’s voice in the hallway, cursing the weather in a jovial way. Peeta grabs the cinnamon buns out of the oven and gets them out on the table again before Hazelle leads the revelers in.  


I lose Peeta in the ensuing hubbub of activity: mugs of cider raised to the new Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, bowls of soup being handed out over people’s heads and under people’s arms, laughing and singing, and gathering around the hearth for the Toasting itself. My brain is a beehive and I am only half listening to the conversations I get swept up in.  


I’m congratulating Gale when the mandolin takes up again and someone shouts that we should have a dance. This is one thing that connects us, Seam and merchant alike. Almost without having to be taught, every child in 12 can do a two step or barn dance. Chairs are pushed back and quilts are swept up to make space.  


I step to the side to watch. It’s a hopeful sight, one of the few we have in 12. People clasping hands, swaying and stamping in the firelight. Madge is lovely in creamy lace as she and Gale promenade down a line of dancers. The snowstorm has died down. By the light streaming from the windows I can see the road again.  


“Hey.”  


I startle. Peeta’s joined me in the corner.  


“Hey.”  


“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable — ”  


“No, no you didn’t. No of course not.”  


“What I meant to say is - um - I still do think you’re pretty great, Katniss Everdeen.”  


“You’re not so bad yourself, Peeta Mellark,” I reply. The beehive in my head quiets down.  


“I thought of something,” he says. “Something you can do for me, if you want.”  


“Name it,” I say.  


“Dance with me?”  


“Is that it?”  


He smiles. “Maybe if you drop by the bakery on your way home tomorrow? Try this new recipe I’m working on and tell me if it’s worth releasing to the paying public?”  


I laugh.  


“It’s a serious duty,” he mock chides. “Not to be taken lightly.”  


Before I can stop myself, I take his hand. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it lightly.”  


He looks down at our hands like he can’t quite believe I’ve said yes. I give his hand a bold squeeze. “That’s good,” he whispers. “Yeah that’s - thanks.”  


“C’mon then?” I invite and his smile returns as he tugs me onto the dance floor. I catch Prim’s eye over the crowd as the baker’s boy spins me around. A sly expression flits across her face and I must go as red as my dress because I know what she’s going to say as soon as we get home.  


“‘Spring is for courting?’” she’ll say mischievously. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you want more in this universe, there's a sequel now - check out Dreaming of Violets


End file.
